Midnight Of The Sun
by Unveiled Creativity
Summary: Set after "Afterbirth". Tate meets his son for the first time.  Hints of Violate.
1. Things That Go Bump In The Night

**Chapter 1**

_Things That Go Bump In The Night_

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><p>Tonight wasn't one of their typical break-ins. Tate didn't hear the drunken laughter of the delinquents who stopped by on occasion, the rocks and beer bottles they chucked at the dustless windows. The house hadn't had a living resident for nearly ten years, but Chad and Moira saw to it that the whole place was scoured at least once a week.<p>

Ben or Tate or whoever was close enough to handle the little fuckers would grab a knife from the kitchen and come out through the back, activating the motion detector light for greater effect. A silhouette with a weapon was a no-brainer. Tate liked to wield a gun, unloaded, per Ben's request. Some were easier to scare than others –Tate'd slit his throat and rasp, "Your turn," as he slashed or pointed the gun at the frozen kid. Physical contact wasn't allowed, another one of Ben's rules. Tate felt like a child, scolded into keeping his hands to himself when he clocked a few teens spraying graffiti on the porch, but he hadn't killed anyone. Whenever he let someone off scotch-free, he liked to think it was a step closer to Violet. He caught her sometimes at her bedroom window, watching him. She barely flinched when he returned her stare and he wanted so badly to tell her that he _was_ changed, that he was _protecting_ people for his benefit, for their benefit. "Enjoy the show?" he wanted to ask every time. What he wouldn't give for another one of their conversations. Her goodbye couldn't have been forever, not if she made an effort to pay him attention. No new ghosts had joined them since the do-gooder Harmons, which had to be some sort of record. Thaddeus greeted the sober ones who found a way in, which was usually through the basement window conveniently left open. No one intervened for that. Tate would chuckle at the screams which shook the house, the escapees who flailed across the lawn and off the property.

Whoever came in this time used the front door. Tate paused during his game of catch with Beau, listening to the creaks on the first floor. The whole house seemed to be listening, holding its breath. The living were so damn loud. Beau groaned when Tate didn't pass the ball back. "Ssh, Beau," he hissed, tiptoeing to the top of the stairs. Tentative steps spanned the length of the hallway and disappeared into the kitchen. Tate blinked and found himself by the front door. He found no sign of a forced entry, no broken glass. The door was locked all day. Constance must've stopped by since she was the only one who had keys. She'd never come by this late though. She'd barely visited at all anymore, not with raising a fledgling murderer next door and burying his kills in the backyard. Tate remembered watching her drag the nanny out to the garden, fifteen years before. She had wrapped the body in garbage bags, sealed in duct tape.

"Taking out the trash?" Tate called, moseying up to the invisible border of grass that separated him from Constance. The woman huffed in her journey down the back steps and wiped her perfectly coiffed hair back from her forehead. He couldn't tell if she was pulling the head or the ankles. "Need some help?"

"The baby," she said, her Southern lilt frazzled, "is sleeping. I'd prefer it if you wouldn't raise your voice..."

"See the _baby_'_s_ started early," Tate said, but not without a snag in his voice. Seeing his mother dispose of a body was nothing new, but knowing that a child, his _son_, did it was fucking creepy.

Constance made a vague gesture, standing with her hands on her hips in the dark. "It was an accident," she said like she was trying to convince herself. She sure wasn't set on convincing him. "Children have tantrums, and they...lash out, they..."

"Whatever makes you feel better."

That was fifteen years ago. Eighteen years since Violet last spoke to him. Tate kept track of the years by the lines embedded in Constance's face and her graying hair whenever she did stop by, the face in the window next door which began to resemble his. She deserved every wrinkle. Every one. She was no mother.

Tate was keyed up. The space around him held a weirdly familiar energy, one that had his skin crawling and his hands shaking. He took a slow, deep breath through his nose. When he was alive, he'd felt the same way before he left the house to begin his attack on Larry and Westfield. It was a potent mix of overwhelming anticipation and anxiety. He wished for a bed to curl on and Violet's breath on his face to cool the building apprehension. The rest of the house must have felt the charge too because Vivian and Violet appeared on the bottom steps, hands clasped together. Tate's unnecessary exhale hitched and he looked away. Hayden materialized at the basement door, shoulders and face hunched in perpetual displeasure.

"Who's here?" she growled.

"Hello?" a deep voice called, not unlike Tate's. Footfalls against the tiles in the kitchen. The women disappeared as Tate followed the source of the voice and made himself invisible. His fists clenched, thrilling at the prospect of cornering the intruder. It'd been weeks since his last scare. A shadow over the threshold of the kitchen. The overhead light was flipped on. Tate willed himself into the kitchen, on the other side of the island. The figure had his back turned to him, half of him craned out the archway. Tate stared at the back of his head, platinum blonde, crew-cut. Probably some dumb jock.

_Look at me, look at me, look at me_, he taunted. When the intruder turned around, he wouldn't see him. Didn't need to. Tate would come out of nowhere when the moment was right.

But the guy turned around and his eyes, Violet's eyes, focused right on Tate. He wasn't startled, didn't scream. _What the fuck? _Tate thought. No one could see him, not if he wanted them to. But here was this tool, staring at Tate like he was just as solid as he was.

This wasn't right. He wasn't even afraid. An itch began at the base of Tate's throat from the sweat collecting under his sweater. The young man's eyes absorbed Tate, and recognition settled in, his mouth twitched into a facsimile of a smile or grimace.

"Hey _Dad_."

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**Author's Note**: To be continued? Your call! Thanks for reading.


	2. House of the Rising Son

**Chapter 2**

_House of the Rising Son_

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><p>"You can see me," Tate said and wavered in his place. One hand splayed on the counter for balance and he shivered at how damp his palm was against the chilled surface. He could have disappeared into another room if he wanted to, but shock kept him planted in the kitchen. Someone could see him regardless of his invisibility, and this someone had just called him Dad.<p>

"Yeah," the guy said. "When your dad's a ghost..."

"Have you always been able to?"

"See dead people?" The teen snorted, preoccupied with some other thought or inside joke Tate wasn't privy to. Tate's fingers twitched with irritation for a long moment. "As long as I can remember. I saw people outside this house all the time, in the backyard, on the porch." Tate wondered how often he'd seen him peeking out the window at Constance's place. He only did it when a police car rolled up and delivered him back to his grandmother. What did Constance call him? He vaguely remembered her yelling the name Michael during late-night arguments. Such a normal name for an abnormal person. Constance was never without an excuse. "I thought they were the owners until I saw they weren't growing any older," Michael continued as he gave the kitchen a once-over. "I've wanted to visit here, ever since I was a kid. The infamous Murder House. Seemed like the sorta place I'd enjoy." Michael patted the counter fondly.

_You have no idea, _Tate wanted to say. The house got what it wanted - the prodigal son returned.

"I told my friends the Westfield High murderer was here. They probably would've come too if they weren't chicken shit," Michael said. Tate hadn't paid much attention to when Constance visited, but sometimes curiosity got the best of him and he eavesdropped on snippets of her monologues about Michael. Michael played JV basketball at some ritzy private high school for three years – Constance would under no circumstances enroll any Langdon at Westfield again. In his junior year, he became class president. Next year he'd graduate and attend one of the many colleges Tate once planned on going to, live the life he'd planned for himself. That is, before he moved into Murder House. Everyone stuck there knew it didn't offer happy futures.

"What stopped you?" Tate said. "From coming sooner, I mean."

"Grandma. She barred my windows, locked me in my room, the works. Stalked me at school. Crazy bitch. But I figure you already know what she's like."

"I guess so," Tate said as his shock settled into nausea. A slow burn eased up his throat. Maybe he wouldn't have done the things he did if Constance paid him any mind. "You got out either way."

"Took some stealth. A little brute force," Michael said with a grin and massaged the raw knuckles of his right hand. He dug into his pocket and withdrew Constance's spare set of keys to the house. "She didn't hide them too well." He referred to Constance in the past tense. Tate knew him for less than five minutes, but he wouldn't put matricide past Michael. He did kill his babysitter after all.

"You're not really my – " Tate couldn't bring himself to say "son." The word sounded foreign, wrong. He hoped Violet wasn't listening to this. It'd be like the night she sent him away all over again. He imagined her face caving in, pale and slack-jawed as she realized his betrayal. In his desperation, he thought playing dumb and screaming pleas would stop her from saying the final "Go away." But she only yelled back, enunciating the vowels as if she meant to banish him forever.

"Pride and joy," Michael drawled, jolting Tate back to the present.

"Bullshit," Tate said, though when he straightened, the sweat on his back of his neck turned cold and his stomach lurched. He searched for a resemblance between them. They stood eye-level and had the same slouched shoulders, though Michael's were considerably broader. His eyebrows were light, so much so that the lamp overhead made him seem like he didn't have them at all. Tate chose to ignore that he spotted his nose on Michael's face and the same shallow parentheses around his mouth. He wore plaid underneath a weathered jean jacket. Tate briefly wondered if plaid was to Michael as striped sweaters was to him. A corner of un-tucked shirt hung over his jeans. Typical teenager, if it wasn't for his eyes. Michael had the same shape as Violet's, but the pupils stood out like bullet holes against unsettling blue irises. Tate lifted his chin, a silent challenge. "There's no proof." He wasn't a father. The most he amounted to was a sperm donor. Nothing more, nothing less. He felt no attachment.

"Keep telling yourself that, Daddy-o."

"Stop calling me – ," Tate struggled through clenched teeth.

"Grandma showed me this photo of you and your sister – Addie? By the tree. She used to tell me, 'That's your dear sweet father' and 'God rest your soul you don't end up like him.'"

"That's no reason to believe her. She's a compulsive liar," Tate pressed.

"She never told me how you died. When I was old enough I did my own research," Michael took a seat down at the counter, reaching for a silver cigarette lighter by the sink. Violet's lighter. Something so trivial took on great importance when it was in Michael's hands. He was touching Violet's things, smudging her goodness. It was like he was touching her. Tate went to grab it, but Michael was quicker. He stared up at Tate, his eyes shadowed as he flicked the top open. The flame ignited. "I have friends at Westfield. I saw the memorial board. Gotta hand it to you...takes some real balls to do what you did." Tate blinked rapidly, the hot rush of bile on his tongue.

"What?" Tate said. Of course he knew exactly what. He had to live with the guilt for thirty-odd years. Michael was smiling.

"Shooting up a school. Amateur move, if you ask my opinion. If you wanna go out, go out with a bang. Go out doing something that'll change the world. I guess Gran really screwed you over, huh?" Tate's vision blurred, his fingers curled into fists as he battled his better judgment. A day, a _minute_, didn't go by that he wasn't reminded of his poor decisions. _No physical contact_, he repeated Ben's mantra, though Ben hadn't said anything about what to do if it was his child.

"I wasn't going to in the beginning. It was the house," Tate said, staring at the floor. "Living here broke me down."

"You're a sick fuck with or without the house," Michael said. "But then again, I guess I am too." His eyes wandered away from the flame, to a point beyond Tate. Perhaps he was reliving some recent crime. He flicked the lighter on, off. On. Off. Again and again.

"Put that down," Tate said.

"Or you'll ground me?" Michael said, deadpan. "Kinda late, Dad. Besides, I didn't come here to be lectured."

"Then why did you?"

"To meet you...," Michael went to say something else, but decided against it. He studied the lighter for a few minutes, eyes trained on the flame. "If the house burned down, what would happen to the ghosts?" Tate tried to match the intensity of Michael's expression during the question. He had no idea what the answer was. They couldn't die a second death, right? If the house was gone, its influence would be too. The ghosts would be free to move on. Whether they'd roam earth-bound or onto another afterlife, he wasn't so sure.

"I don't know," Tate shrugged, inching closer. He could will himself over, but Michael might expect that since he'd seen everything else.

Just then his son rose from his seat, the lighter's flame reflected in his colorless eyes. "Let's find out, shall we?"

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**Author's Note: **I had The Animals' "House of the Rising Sun" on repeat while writing this, so that's where the chapter got its title. :-)

Thank you for all your lovely & encouraging feedback! Hope this chapter met some of your expectations. I had a lot of fun writing Michael's snark. Couldn't decide how to write Tate – I think I leaned more towards his defensive, vulnerable side. Thanks again! Looking forward to your thoughts.


	3. Gonna Smoke You Out

**Chapter 3**

_Gonna Raise The Stakes, Gonna Smoke You Out_

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><p><em>2011 <em>

Tate screamed long after he'd vanished from his and Violet's room. He ended up in the hallway, yanking his hair and punching the walls until his knuckles bled. This was not how it was supposed to be. They weren't over, not yet, not now. When his throat became too sore to yell he sank into a crouch by the basement door, trembling with aftershocks and sobbing into his knees. He didn't want to know who told her. He tore up his scalp to try and release what Violet said, to dull the pain of the overwhelming _guilt_ she'd made him feel. The self-mutilation was useless. She knew what he did and what he wanted to move on from. There was no coming back from that.

Eventually the tears and self-loathing subsided, and Tate mustered enough strength to go into the living room. The heady smell of iron nauseated him, but he forced himself to look at the bloodied sheets and floor. He memorized Vivien's body on the couch, Ben with his head in his hands. The house shivered with delight at the carnage Tate had caused, what his progeny had caused. His highest achievement.

"_The baby, whatever it was, it killed her_." Violet's words struck him in the back of the head, and in the midst of all the gore and loss, he had a thought.

_Killed her...killed...kill, kill, killkillkill. _

He knew what he had to do.

The house bristled at Tate's plan of action as he moved through the rooms to the kitchen. The baby was an extension of him, a monster. It had murdered, just like he had, and it had to die. No more pain. Not after the threat was dead. This was for Violet, for her parents, hell, for the well-being of the world. Tate couldn't do any more damage. He promised himself he wouldn't hurt anyone else, but this thing he'd created wasn't human. He imagined his black eyes on the child's face, a misshapen head and twisted limbs, the true form of what he was. The house pressed in on his temples in an attempt to warp his rationale, panicking at Tate's sudden bout of independence. He shrugged it off with a flex of his fingers. He found Moira standing over the sink, a bloody towel on the counter adjacent to her.

"Where is it?" His voice was rough.

"What?" Moira sniffled, her good eye glazed over. He couldn't tell if they were happy tears. She turned halfway, dabbing her face. "Oh, with your mother." She took the towel and held it under the faucet. "She just left, to take him home. No good would come with that girl Hayden harassing her."

_Shit_, Tate thought as he blinked to the front yard. What he wouldn't have given for Hayden to start a brawl and earn him some time. Constance passed through the front gates with her bundle, keeping a steady pace. He ran after her and staggered to a halt just inside the left-hand boundary. She knew he was there, must've heard the footfalls behind her. She turned once and saw his bloodshot eyes, the grim line of his mouth, and startled.

"Let me see him," Tate said. He searched for something human underneath the blanket and hoped she'd take a step forward, maybe two, just enough for him to reach out and –

"Tate! Oh, Tate...he needs rest, the dear boy. Birth is not an easy task, you know," Constance said as she continued on her way. "Perhaps in a few weeks, when he's all settled in." She picked up her pace a little more, her high heels clacking against the pavement and her arms tight around the baby. They both knew she'd never bring him back, not of her own volition. Tate tore a hole in his jeans pocket.

"You can't protect him forever. One day he'll come back, and then what'll you do?"

Constance wavered through measured strides, an indication of her fear. "You'll never have him," she said over her shoulder. "No one will, and certainly not that goddamned house."

Tate picked his toe through the grass. "I hope he's just like me," he said, his eyes on the back of her impeccable up-do. The woman had always paid more attention to her hair than to her children. Tate felt his lips form a sneer, and he was satisfied, at least with this last good wish. He knew once Constance was gone and the house was quiet again, he'd wander the halls and wait, stuck in the miserable void Violet had sent him to. His throat closed in on itself, but he continued on with his taunt. "That's exactly how he'll turn out. Your perfect child."

She glanced back at him, but her mouth was tight, unwilling to agree. She knew he was right, whether she tried to prevent her grandson's homicidal tendencies or not. It was just a matter of time.

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><p>About two years ago, Tate read an article in the newspaper Constance had left behind during one of her visits. Apparently several local homes had gone up in flames, some with fatalities. Police suspected foul play, but hadn't yet bagged a culprit. Tate noticed Michael's obsession with the lighter flame, and thought he might've found the neighborhood pyromaniac.<p>

Michael had the lighter in one hand, the dial to the front burner in his other. He would up the gas, let it spread, and then... "_Boom_," he whispered. Tate flinched. In another life, he said the same thing to the cops in his room, to the pointed guns. And he remembered the awful rush of adrenaline which followed, the darkness willing his fingers to move for the bag by his side. They didn't see his terror, roiling his heart, lungs, and brain into a frenzied attempt to kill himself before they did. He wouldn't go easily.

Tate kept himself still, composed. He wasn't going to die, not again. _You can't die_, he told himself. There was no reason to doubt what obviously wouldn't happen. "Hey, it's your funeral," he said, raising his hands.

"I don't mind dying here," Michael said seriously, and without looking, turned the gas on. The burner ticked as it tried to ignite and Tate caught the faint hiss and smell of escaped gas.

"You're gonna regret saying that. By the way, don't you think this whole thing is a little amateurish?"

"I don't mind dying here...yet," Michael said again, still toneless. "This is just practice. And besides, I like watching things burn." Tate could tell the house was furious because there was an agitated ripple in the foundation. The walls creaked like an earthquake was passing through. Michael paused, sensing the change too. His hand left the dial for the briefest of seconds, and Tate made his move.

He went to smack the lighter away. Maybe kick Michael's legs out from underneath him. He didn't anticipate Michael to retaliate. As soon as Tate touched him, Michael snapped into action. He shoved Tate with his free arm, gasping when he realized he was just as solid, if not more. Tate's next move would have been to take Michael's head and smash it against the counter edge; instead he retreated a step, though the force of the blow would have knocked anyone else down. "Ah, ah, ah," Michael said, holding the lighter away as if Tate was a child. There was a tension now, subtle, but present. Tate could see it in the way Michael shrugged in his jacket. Something had finally surprised him. "Now is that any way to treat your son? Trying to smack some sense into me?"

"I could do a lot worse," Tate murmured.

"Yeah, sure. You're nothing without a gun," Michael said. Tate knocked a fist against his thigh.

_And you're nothing without a match. _"Wanna bet?" he said, though he was uncertain how brutal he'd let himself become. What if he accidentally killed him? No one wanted him here.

Michael snorted. "Oh, this should be good. Winner takes...this?" He waved the silver box at Tate. He nodded. "All right then." Tate approached as Michael pocketed the item.

_Take it easy_, his better judgment warned but everything else ached to break bones.

"I don't know how much damage a runner could do," Michael said when Tate was close enough to see the pores on his forehead. He looked so much older than eighteen. "It wasn't like you were a star athlete or anything. Popular kids don't usually bring guns to school, do they?" Michael's provocation was certainly effective. Tate drew to his full height, gaining an inch on the other. "Honestly, how'd I ever get started?" Tate let out a hot exhale and stared him down.

"Easy," Tate wheezed.

"With your glowing credentials, I wonder, who was desperate enough to fuck you?"

Tate couldn't remember the next few seconds very well. Punches were thrown, most deflected, some achieved. All he knew was that his lip was puffy and Michael was in a choke-hold. His arm trembled around his son's throat, his other hand gripping his head as he regained consciousness. The gas fumes overpowered his nostrils, settling in his brain. Michael's fingers clawed at Tate's arm, but he was numb, so numb and ready to finish this. "I can break your neck," Tate said, his eyes shut tight. He twisted Michael's head just the slightest and heard strangled curses and labored breathing over the groaning of his spine. "I'll do it if you don't leave."

"Screw you," Michael managed and his hands left Tate's arm. Tate felt him fumbling for the lighter and braced himself for the explosion, knowing it might hurt, knowing he'd be fine. But all he was greeted with was silence. The burner stopped hissing gas. Even Michael stopped struggling. Tate opened his eyes, his vision blurred. He blinked slowly, and there she was, beside the stove, the lighter tucked in her white-knuckled hands. Her hair masked her expression, but Tate caught half of her right eye, wide and curious.

"Violet."

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**Author's Note**: Goodness, I can't finish this! Psycho Tate and Michael have grown on me. I think the next chapter will definitely be the last...or not. We'll see, haha. Hope you enjoyed Constance/Tate & Tate/Michael interactions. Had a lot of fun writing them. Thank you so much for reviewing and most importantly, reading!


	4. Ocean of Noise

**Chapter 4**

_Ocean of Noise_

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><p>Her name triggered the explosion, though no one felt it except Tate. The blaze of old guilt and desperation ripped him open, jerked him inside out, and in the aftermath he let his hands slip from Michael's shoulders. A distinct ringing started in his left ear. It was like picking open an old wound that hadn't fully scabbed and probably never would. The sound of her name felt new in his mouth and he hadn't said it in so long. Now that it was out there his face felt hot with embarrassment. Michael must've picked up on his tone, must've figured out their history because he turned his head in Tate's direction. With her free hand Violet gathered her hair behind her ear and Tate focused on her pink lips turning red as she mashed them together.<p>

His eyes dropped from Violet's to the floor, unable to register her presence, her sudden proximity to him. She was no longer separated by windows, doors, or walls. How long had she been listening? Why had she stepped in? Despite having her family, Tate knew there had to be some sort of resentment towards her situation. Whenever he saw her she didn't seem happy, but that also might have been because she was looking at him. Michael moved slowly, grabbing around his neck, his fingers in perfect alignment with Tate's residual prints. They had the same sized hands. Tate threw one more sheepish glance at Violet, but she was staring at Michael, and by all accounts he was staring right back. He couldn't imagine what was running through her mind, the evidence of Tate's betrayal standing right in front of her. Silence pervaded the distance between them as Tate cowered behind. Then, a strangled release of air.

"Mom?" Michael said on the breath. Tate's head shot up. Seeing the product of her mother's rape was one thing; being confused with her must've sent Violet over the edge. Her face tightened as a fresh wave of nausea gnawed at the pit of Tate's stomach. There was no way of winning her back now. He knew why Michael asked – the resemblance was unmistakable and teen parents weren't uncommon – but the question didn't make him any less pissed.

"No," Violet whispered, crinkling her forehead as her eyes glazed over with some unspoken emotion. "I'm not her." She struggled with the last part, quirking her mouth in a way that made Tate ache.

"But – ," Michael started.

"Hello Michael," Vivien said from the doorway. Tate mentally smacked himself. This whole situation was guaranteed to become even more awkward now though he see-sawed between relief and frustration. Vivien momentarily threw Michael's attention off Violet, but it wouldn't be long until Michael knew the truth once and for all. Vivien's arms were crossed and a sad smile accented the wrinkles around her mouth. She looked about as melancholy as she did when Tate finally apologized for raping her. He hadn't spoken to her before that, and he'd spent days, years, working out the right thing to say, though nothing ever sounded right.

When he'd mustered enough courage to face her alone ten years had passed. He'd found Vivien in the kitchen, cutting flowers for a spring bouquet, and after he owned up to his guilt and stopped counting his sorries, she held up her hand and stood staring.

"I don't expect you to forgive me," Tate said after a while, remembering Violet's words that she'd never forgive him. That botched any plan to remain tear-free in front of Vivien.

"I don't expect to either," she said, her one and only verbal exchange with Tate. He nodded through sniffles as she rounded the island with the scissors she'd used to snip the stems, wiping the blades clean on her shirt. She stopped two feet away, the same sad smile fading as she jammed the scissors into his crotch. He held out for a few stabs, at least until the pain was so consuming he collapsed, holding his severed everything. She followed him down, slashing his thighs and stomach, her brow furrowed with the effort. Then, when she was satisfied, Vivien sat back, took a breath, returned to the sink and ran the scissors under the faucet. Tate vaguely remembered Moira walking in and tisking at the mess as he blinked into the basement, curled in on himself. The pipes shook with the house's laughter at his misfortune. The jeans were saturated with blood, but Tate continued to wear them, his criminal blotch running down the front as he blacked out over and over again. His genitalia eventually reattached, but the pain lingered, and lingered still. He was numb down there now.

"Who are you?" Michael shot back at Vivien as she drifted over to Violet.

"This is your half-sister, Violet," Vivien said, slipping an arm around her daughter's waist and giving a gentle squeeze.

"What...?" Michael said. Tate felt himself moving backwards, away from the surprise family reunion. He didn't want to stay for the big reveal.

Violet muttered a faint "Yeah" and shoved her hands into her dress pockets. Tate saw the outlines of her fingers kneading the fabric.

"I think I saw you once, here, in this room," Michael said. Vivien shifted, lifting her eyebrows.

"I'm surprised you remember. You weren't even a month old," she said. The smile waned for a moment and Violet looked at her. Her mouth parted in anticipation for another betrayal. "Michael," Vivien started, releasing Violet and approaching him. Tate thought he'd flinch away, but Michael just stood there as she framed his face in her hands. "Look at you," she said cautiously, stroking his cheek with her thumb, "all grown up." Tate couldn't determine Michael's reaction. Violet seemed lost without her mother by her side. She leaned against the counter, her arms slung helplessly around herself as she watched the interaction. Tate would've willed himself over to her if he could, wrap her up, feel the shape of her body and smooth her hair the way he used to. Protect her, make her forget that she was dropped for his son. But before Tate could move, Ben filled the space beside his daughter. He kneaded her shoulder and leaned forward to whisper something unintelligible. She was better off. "I'm sorry I wasn't in your life more. You don't know how much – " Vivien faltered, pressing her lips together like Violet had done.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Michael shrugged away from her touch. "Who are you?" His voice sounded hollow, like he already knew.

"I'm your mother," Vivien said. And there it was. All eyes flicked to Tate, the psycho elephant in the room. He slouched in submission but didn't disappear. Leaving would only make him more pathetic. "I know it's difficult to understand right now, but..."

"Well," Michael said as he turned to Tate, "this shit keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?" And after a pause: "Someone _was_ willing after all." He shook his head in mock disbelief, the same way Constance would if Tate tried to talk to her about anything. Ben bristled at the comment, moving forward to deliver a beat-down or whatever he meant to do to Michael. Vivien stilled him with a hand to his chest, the other pressed to her mouth. Tate searched for Violet but she was blocked by Ben's shoulders.

"It wasn't consensual," Vivien said slowly.

"What?" Michael said again.

"I'd like to speak with Michael alone," she said to no one in particular.

"I honestly don't think I want to hear anymore," he said.

"I'd like you to, please." Vivien indicated the chair at the island as Violet looked on, dragging her palms up her arms.

"Mom?" she mewled. Tate's chest heaved with a suppressed sob as he turned on his heels, hoping to erase the unhappiness in her tone from his mind. Too much, too fast. Tate willed himself into the basement and the comforting, quiet darkness which surrounded his lonely rocking chair. But it wasn't quiet and his favorite place to rock wasn't vacant.

Larry's wife and children peered out with Travis from down the hall, and Dr. Montgomery paced at the foot of the stairs, muttering on loop about the incoming patient.

"My baby's up there, isn't he? The one your bitch of a mother stole," Hayden said from Tate's spot. Her raccoon eyes leered at Tate, an expectant smile on her face. "I want to see him."

"Doubt it. Now get the fuck out of my chair," Tate whispered. The rustling of the other ghosts and the scratching of Thaddeus' nails against the cement were too goddamn distracting. "Just...go away, all of you." When the noises didn't abate he said it louder until his seat was empty and silence finally prevailed. The chair creaked as he rested and smoothed his hands down the white-washed arms, curling his fingers around the knobs. He was so tired but he couldn't sleep. His concentration lingered on Violet's last plea to her mother. What did she hope to accomplish by calling her? What did she want to ask? Michael was no longer a threat, not without a weapon. Was she worrying about her baby brother? Michael did have a hand in killing him. Tate didn't know his name, but sometimes he caught a glimpse of the other twin, the _normal _one, as a teenager, the age he would have been if he was still alive. He knew who it was because he resembled Ben. That must have been the house's doing because Tate hadn't seen anyone grow old before. He knocked these thoughts around, losing track of the hundreds of possible routes the conversation upstairs could go, trying to understand that someone inherited his genetic makeup and was wreaking more havoc than he ever had. And Violet. He wouldn't stop replaying her lackluster replies, the blank roundness of her brown eyes. He didn't deserve her attention but he wanted it – fuck, did he want it. It was the crazy hope she'd actually give him a smidgen of a chance that had been holding him together...

Footsteps rasped down the basement stairs. They hesitated on the bottom step for a few long minutes, piquing Tate's curiosity just enough for him to rise and step towards the sound. They were too light to be Michael's. Tate stared into the darkness and listened to the purposeful breaths of the visitor. She knew he was there.

"You lied to me," the darkness said in Violet's voice. No greeting. Just that simple statement. Tate leaned against the wall opposite her to steady himself. "At the beach on Halloween, you blamed the pills, but you didn't want what happened to my mother to happen to me. Because you knew you could, if you let yourself. You'd gotten her pregnant by then, right? I just had to be dead first."

Tate chewed on his bottom lip, tasting salty tears. "I wanted it to be special with you," he said.

"Huh, special," Violet echoed.

"It was special, Violet. When the time was right," Tate asserted, his voice nearly keening to a whine. He was the most real he'd been in a while with her, didn't she know that?

"Because you didn't have to worry about knocking me up with a homicidal monster," Violet said through a choked sob. "Dead girls can't have kids. But dead boys can. You knew all along, even when I said we couldn't have children. How?"

"I don't know." He managed to keep his voice staccato.

"You had to have known or else you wouldn't have raped my mother. Who else did you hurt?" There was a slash of muted streetlight shining through the basement window, and Tate could see Violet's battered Converse and her fist hugging the banister. Interrogation was definitely not the way he fantasized speaking with her again.

"N – no one, I swear!" Tate said, horrified.

"There had to be other women."

"It was the house, Violet. The house knew, not me, not until it was over."

"That's bullshit."

"No," Tate gasped through tears. He wanted to tell her that before her mother, he hadn't been with anybody, even when he was alive. He was so sick of people that sex was definitely out of the question. No one wanted him in high school. His mouth was cottony and helpless and he curled a finger around a stray lock of hair until the feeling in his fingertip dulled. "Nora was always going on about her lost baby, and she wanted one so badly that I thought I'd help her out."

"So you raped on purpose. You made a conscious decision to – "

"It wasn't _me_," Tate said, pushing off the wall. "I was controlled, Violet. In the suit I had no idea what was going on." He hoped that partial truth would settle her. Of course he wasn't oblivious to everything. He remembered, when he did snap back, being terrified and wanting to stop, and after, waking up in the bathroom, pulling off the mask and asking his reflection what the fuck he just did.

"The suit?" Violet repeated and Tate was close enough to see the tears in her eyes.

"Don't cry," he said and didn't stop himself from reaching out to close his hand over her fist, the cool skin like fire on his palm. An old thrill ignited in his limbs at the overstepped boundaries. They were themselves again. Next he'd step closer, and she'd warn him about the likelihood her parents would come down at this exact moment, and he wouldn't give a shit because she was so pretty and she was rocking on tip-toe, waiting, and finally he'd kiss her, something slow, warm, and tingling. That's the way it should've been. But Violet whimpered and yanked her hand out from under his. "I'm not like that anymore, Vi." Violet blinked rapidly at the nickname. "I don't hurt people. I don't want to."

"You haven't had a reason to."

"You still think I could?" His voice came out soft, morbidly curious. _Haven't you seen my progress? _Tate wanted to scream.

Violet considered for a moment, her stare rivaling his. "If you really wanted to, yes."

"That's not fair," Tate grumbled.

"I didn't say it was fair."

"Why are you talking to me? I thought I was the last person in this house you'd want to see."

"I thought – " Violet shrugged, wedging her toe into a crack in the floor. "I don't know. Forget it, I was wrong to come here."

"Tell me," Tate said, a little more firmly. He resisted grabbing her arms and pinioning her to the spot. "We're being honest, aren't we?"

"It's about Michael," she stammered out.

"What about Michael?" Tate said. Violet sighed, a wet, crinkling sound that Tate felt down his spine. She crossed her arms, her hands snug in the crooks of her elbows. Protecting herself from him or what she was about to say.

"My parents won't listen, but something needs to be done about him."

"What should I do about it?" Tate asked. He rolled his eyes, laughing softly. Violet's eyes narrowed at his reaction, but she remained silent. He tried to think of a non-violent approach Violet would like and imagined the epic fail lecturing Michael would turn out to be. "Kill him or something?"

Violet wrapped herself tighter, swallowing hard, and murmured, "Yes."

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**A/N**: Hello readers! I hope this was worth the almost month's long delay and that Violet's voice didn't sound _too_ OOC. :-D My favorite scene to write must have been Tate's apology to Vivien. He totally deserved it.

Was on a major Arcade Fire kick while writing this, so that's where the title's from. Epilogue will be up soon.


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